Doloris illa Ustulo Anima
by Feste the Fool
Summary: Knighthood is not tournaments and flowery speeches. Knighthood is pain. A series of ficlets dipping into the hearts, minds, and souls of the series' finest. Might get...odd. I'll post spoiler warnings in the chapter. Title changed to fix translation.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer:** There are no characters in this chapter, but the characters you will soon see belong to Gerald Morris.

This is a little different than my usual stuff, but only because Squire's Tales is one of my favorite series of all time, and Mr. Morris is my second favorite author. This is a character exploration, mostly, into the knights of Camelot. Enjoy!

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To be a knight was less about great tournaments, trials, and battles than people thought. Rather, to be a knight was to be intimately familiar with pain. All knights, whether they are of that prestigious union known to all as the Round Table, knew pain. Knighthood was pain, and if the men involved were any less than prepared to handle it, they would not be knights.

Some talked it up, some talked it down. Some ignored it, others fought it. Still others flirted with it, and the select dangerous and insane fell in love with it. A good knight avoided it at all costs. A better knight tried not to put himself in the way, but treated it with a healthy dose of respect and rose to the occasion if needed. The best knights lived with it permanently. The Round Table knights were of that last category.

Any knight worth his helmet could tell you that there are more than one kinds of pain. There are thousands of pains, and pains upon pains. Each one is different than any other, and each one is varied depending on who was feeling it. Many times this pain was secret—knights speak of the scars that mar their bodies, never the scars searing their souls.

It is the pain that scorches the heart and burns the mind that we are most interested in…and it is the most surprising people who are most afflicted…


	2. Sir Tristram

Take, for a short example, the life of Sir Tristram, who was not a member of the Round Table, but perhaps should have been. It would have made him better than he was.

Those who did not know Sir Tristram knew of him. Some pains are easy to see—the pain of loving a woman he could never marry, the pain of accepting her love knowing to do so made her unfaithful to her true husband. It was a tragic story with a tragic ending. Simple enough to sympathize with the pain of a romantic hero who died a violent death for his love.

Those who did know Tristram wondered how he managed to feel anything at all with a brain that surely could not have been larger than his thumbnail. They saw within him the pain of a secret that could not be kept, and the pain of foolishness that could not be helped. It was a very loud sort of anguish that no one pitied him for. Not even his own brother, although heavens know _he _had _far_ more than his fair share of pain to deal with.

But there was a much more quiet suffering the brainless dolt buried deep within him and feared to even think about. It was the pain of knowing that he wanted something he couldn't have, something that was missing from his life. It wasn't Iseult. It wasn't Cornwall, or a palace, or anything like that. In fact, the reason he couldn't have this _thing_ was because he had no idea what it was.

Tristram wanted whatever it was his brother had that made him so happy. It couldn't have been music, for he had seen his brother happy without it. It was something, some unknown reserve of strength, determination, wit or honor—perhaps not honor—that Tristram somehow knew he could never have. He could never understand such a concept as peace or service to a noble cause. He had a mind akin to Sir Lancelot's, without the massive potential for greatness.

He never breathed a word of how much that missing link bothered him, gnawing like a rat at leather, never giving him a moment's rest. It was his secret agony, and he carried it with him unto the day he died.


	3. Sir Galahad

Sir Galahad's pain was also of the blindingly obvious variety: the pain of purity. To forsake all the earthly desires of man is a hard, painful thing, after all. There are many things he would never know—the love or friendship of a woman, the easy camaraderie of band of knights, the festivities following a task well done, the joy that comes of choosing the right over the wrong. No, Sir Galahad was on a quest for perfection and holy enlightenment, something he knew was impossible to find. When he sacrificed for his quest, it was with a pride that chokes away all joy and a haughtiness that drove his fellows away from him. All who knew him hated him, pitied him, or looked up to him. There could be none holier.

This in itself was Galahad's pain. The burden he placed upon his own shoulders was greater than any he could be given. Many times had he longed for such things as the other knights had, things he could have and retain his goodness, if only he'd open his eyes to see it. Friendship, a common ground, brotherhood, honest respect. Instead he'd sour his stomach and harden his heart, and turn away from the spectacle. After so long with a holier-than demeanor, his only true companions the priests and parish, his sour stomach turned to boiling hate, and that was his other great pain.

The hate changed him inside. He went from loving his holy pain to spending all his time trying to get away from it. To the ends of the earth and back, he would ride, to rid himself of that horrible agony of being better than all else he met. He wanted life without sin, but he did not want to sacrifice for it any longer. The hate twisted and rolled in his gut, forcing him onward and upward. When he at last found the Grail, he did not drink to achieve perfect purity, but to forget the pain of righteousness.


	4. Sir Tor

**Small reference to The Squire, his Knight, and his Lady.** **This one's short, because Tor is a pretty painless kind of guy.**

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Sir Tor had problems of another kind. He did not have a drop of faerie blood in him, it was true, but he learned to recognize it when he saw it. Having been to the very brink of the faerie world, he developed a kind of longing for the mystical beauty he saw there. It kept him awake occasionally, thinking if he could just once cross the threshold into that enchanting place, he would die happy. He also knew, instinctually, that it was never to be. That place belonged to Gawain and his squire. It hurt him deeply, not only that he could not enter, but that he could not follow his friends in and provide them with an extra sword, should they need it.

Besides that, he felt the pain of obscurity. It was true that many knew his name across England. He was a well known figure, and much admired. Yet his name always fell eighth or ninth on a list covered in legends. What was one knight among so many, all much greater than he? He would be lost in the mists of time, and he regretted it. It was a sour feeling, a mild but infuriating pain, and Tor bore it well. He continued to do his great deeds, happy in the knowledge that he was honoring always his king. He still bore hopes that one day he may do something worth remembering.

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**Eavis, you made my day. So glad that a familiar name, especially yours, loves these books as much as I do.**

**It's possible that Tor does awesome things in the latest two books, but I haven't read them yet, so don't call me out on them. Also, I'm going to need to do some heavy rereading for some of these knights—which is difficult, because the only book I have is Squire's Tale. I _should_ be getting most of them within the next few weeks, so ficlets might go into more detail.**

**Taking requests! Anybody have a favorite knight, or name they saw in passing? Who do you want to hear from next?**


	5. Sir Kai

**Now onto Sir Kai, courtesy of Aria657. Hope I did him justice.**

** Tiny reference to the Ballad of Sir Dinadan. Funny—it's the only book I haven't read twice, but it seems to be the one cropping up the most.  
**

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Sir Kai's is the pain of being out of place. He is a fighter, born, bred, and tried by fire, trapped forever in a paper-pusher's position. He loves his brother. He's proud to serve him in any way possible, but he can't help but feel trapped. The other knights of the Table ride off to adventure, glory, danger, and heartache. He stands at the gate and watches them come and go, knowing he cannot ride out whenever he pleases as they can.

Going away with Bedivere and that numbskull he adopted was a blessing to Kai—a chance to stretch his legs and live the life a knight was born to lead, for a while at least. When the task was done, he could look back on those days gladly and be at peace with himself. The peace, however, comes at the price of painful longing and regret. He continues to revel in Arthur's trust, but adventure will forever ache in his bones.

As he grows accustomed to his job, that pain lessens and a new one arises—the pain of disability. He sees his brother and king do his own duties every day, sometimes with the air of one carrying the weight of the world. And he does carry the world, Kai realizes. He tries his hardest, but it kills him that he cannot take on more of that weight. What's more—the two may be thick as thieves now, but it was not always so. He looks back on his childhood days and cruel words to Arthur with a mixture of sweet nostalgia and sheepish guilt. He knows Arthur never even thinks of how his brother tormented him so, but it is still enough to haunt Kai's dreams once in a while.

His pains are mild, and half the time he ignores them. What kind of born-and-bred warrior would he be if he collapsed at every pinprick?


	6. Sir Palomides

**At last, the long-awaited story of Sir Palomides. It was hard to come up with a good pain—and then, it hit me. And yes, it did hurt. _WARNING! SPOILERS FOR THE LEGEND OF THE KING!_  
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Sir Palomides, who was not a knight of the Round Table only because he never made it to Camelot, was a knight of few pains at first. Mostly little things—missed opportunities and the desire to be rude on occasion without having to accept the consequences of his rudeness. Only after his second return to England did he discover what his greatest pain would be—and it was that he had, indeed, never been to Camelot.

Certainly he never regretted turning back when he did. He had seen all the honor and glory of England in his friend Dinadan. Surely there could be no greater example of the truth of the Round Table. He did not need to see the thing himself, not anymore. Then Camelot fell, and through his friend Dinadan, he, Palomides the Moor, was one of eight souls charged with spreading the legend of the king.

What right did he have to bear such an important task? He, a Moorish knight who often missed Africa more than he cared to admit, he who had never even clapped eyes on the great King Arthur, he who had never spoken to any Round Table knight save Dinadan who was no one in perspective? He who had been in England only for a collective two or so years at the most, who had fought and killed Christian Knights in the Holy Lands, who did not believe in the English God? What _right_ did he have to help these relics of the Age of Camelot to restore the glory of Arthur's England? He was far from home. He did not belong here. It bothered him more than he could say, that pain of un-belonging, of unworthiness. Many times he thought of crossing the Chanel and never looking back—his love for his friends and his immense respect for their dead ideals stopped him every time, although there were several close calls.

Even when Palomides was at his most troubled, Dinadan could cheer him without knowing quite what was wrong. A word, a hand on his shoulder, a song, and the pain was deadened for a time. The memory of Morganna's first laugh or Guinglain's infectious smile and it seemed even further away. Even if it was always for only a short amount of time, it was enough. He would help rebuild England. When order was established once more, he knew he would at last have a home.


End file.
